Yesterday, Queensland chef Matt Golinski was released from the Royal Brisbane Hospital.
For the benefit of interstate and international readers, Golinski suffered horrific burns in a house fire on boxing day last year that claimed the lives of his wife and three young daughters. After admission to hospital, he was put into an induced coma for around two months. This is about the same length of time I was under, so I have some understanding of the rehabilitative work that Matt has put in, and will continue to put in, to rebuild his body from its post-coma state.
Matt has worked exceedingly hard to rebuild his shattered body and life. The fact that he is now well enough to be discharged is the ultimate testament to the man's determination and strength.
Like me, Matt turned 40 in hospital a few weeks ago. But it's there that the parallels end. I will never understand the horrific physical pain and suffering that this man endured, nor the devastating emotional pain of having to recover from a tragedy that has cruelly taken my family from me. Matt Golinski is a remarkable man. A genuine hero in a world that creates all too many for reasons all too spurious. I tip me hat to this brave and truly inspirational bloke. His makes my own struggle appear somewhat modest.
Until next time,
Monday, 30 April 2012
Thursday, 26 April 2012
ANZAC Week on Desolation Row
This week, Australia and New Zealand celebrated ANZAC Day. For the benefit of foreign readers, ANZAC Day is a commemoration of soldiers who have served our nations in conflict, and in particular suffered mortal or other injury. It originated as a memorial for soldiers who served in the First World War in Turkey and Northern France but now extends more generally to active service in all conflicts.
On Tuesday, Noel was discharged from hospital. The Midnight Cowboy packed his belongings and ambled off into the sunset. He was elated and left us feeling strong and fit. He was well ready to move on from hospital life and had endured a long and difficult wait on the transplant list. All up he had been in hospital for nearly six months. He had experienced the supreme disappointment of three close calls for organs. Two were hearts that were not the right size for him and he was, at the time, not physically well enough to undergo transplant surgery for the third. Close calls like this are not uncommon on the transplant list and fortunately I am yet to experience the tumultuous ecstasy and agony of such an event. Noel put in the hard yards and well deserved the relatively smooth run he was blessed with when the right heart finally became available for him. I will miss his presence on the ward and our days are much quieter without him. The need for a heart transplant has its genesis in many and diverse causes and it is an affliction that will bring together a random group of patients from all walks of life. In many respects, I have had nothing at all in common with any of Noel, Catherine and Mandy, other than our VADs and shared need for a heart transplant. We have all dealt with the situation in our own way. So far as the hospital is concerned, there can be no one-size-fits-all program for the care and management of a VAD/transplant patient. I wish Noel well and look forward to catching up with him when I too have become a former occupant of this place.
Wednesday was ANZAC day and a public holiday. I left the Hospital with ambitious plans. Camilla and I would take the children for a Barbecue in a large and popular water park, to join the Bellbowries and some friends for the afternoon. It was always going to be a challenge for our family to undertake such an expedition with a man and his VAD and an autistic boy who, given previous history, would be likely to be traumatised at the thought of submersion in water. Our more capable companions would be bringing all the gear and food and Julie promised to help with Charlie. We decided that nothing ventured would be nothing gained so it was off to the water park we went, bringing only ourselves, our VADs and two bottles of decent red from the cellar. One was a 2002 Gramps Barossa Shiraz; the other a 2006 Bungawarra Granite Belt Cabernet.
The afternoon was difficult for us. Then again, most things that are easily achieved for a "normal" family are difficult for us at present. The park was ridiculously crowded and the terrain unsuited to pushing a VAD. Charlie freaked when he saw children paddling in the shallow pools and wanted to be as far from the water as possible. Rather than entertain the idea of swings or rides, he just wanted to visit the public toilets, which had long queues of impatient park people. Imogen just wanted to read a book. I felt horrendously disabled and could contribute nothing of practical use to the proceedings. The barbecues were in short supply and frustratingly tepid. It took forever to render meat dry and grey. It should have been a terrible afternoon. But it wasn't. Not by any means. Julie took Charlie by the hand and led him around the water park to find things he enjoyed. He found playground equipment he liked. Even a few toilets. Andrew cooked the meat and Erich sprinkled it with lovely South African allspice. Conversation flowed easily. Imogen ditched the book and started talking to the other girls. The wine was excellent.
It's safe and easy to opt out of living because it is just too difficult with a VAD and a child with autism. Things that are easy for most families are difficult and frustrating for us. Nonetheless, the VAD is temporary and life cannot come to a complete halt. The show must go on.
Yesterday, my medical team decided to trial another painkiller regime. I had pushed them to indulge me this little experiment, because I was anxious to get this right before the transplant surgery. We decided to revert to a hit of good old fashioned morphine - tried and tested and excellent for heavy duty pain relief. We added a dose of stematil to mitigate the vertigo and a dose of ondanzitron for nausea.
The result was promising. I got a little vertigo, but nothing like the spinning room sensation I had experienced on other painkillers. I had no nausea. I could easily stand and even mange 15 minutes on the treadmill. I vomited once, copiously and violently, after the second dose. Far from ideal, but manageable. My pharmacist hopes that the vomiting can be managed with maxillon or perhaps my old buddy Dom Perignon. All in all, we now have something we can work with.
Today, Camilla and I got to the movies. This was the first time we had attempted the movies since my confinement. Again, it was ambitious and easily could have been too difficult with a VAD. Again, it proved a very worthwhile experience. We saw Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, a film adapted from a novel written by one of my favourite writers, Paul Torday. It was very good and we both thoroughly enjoyed it. It was easy for us to find good seats, as it was a quiet morning session. The Impaler ticked and whirred loudly throughout, but we had the crowd behind us and cared little whether the noise may have bothered a few people we didn't know and would never see again.
I am slowly coming to the realisation that even now life is for living and changed circumstances just mean that we carry on a little differently than we did before, or tackle things a little differently to everyone else. There is much merit in just getting on with life until the donor organ arrives. We know not the hour, nor the day. But in the meantime, life is for living.
Until next time,
On Tuesday, Noel was discharged from hospital. The Midnight Cowboy packed his belongings and ambled off into the sunset. He was elated and left us feeling strong and fit. He was well ready to move on from hospital life and had endured a long and difficult wait on the transplant list. All up he had been in hospital for nearly six months. He had experienced the supreme disappointment of three close calls for organs. Two were hearts that were not the right size for him and he was, at the time, not physically well enough to undergo transplant surgery for the third. Close calls like this are not uncommon on the transplant list and fortunately I am yet to experience the tumultuous ecstasy and agony of such an event. Noel put in the hard yards and well deserved the relatively smooth run he was blessed with when the right heart finally became available for him. I will miss his presence on the ward and our days are much quieter without him. The need for a heart transplant has its genesis in many and diverse causes and it is an affliction that will bring together a random group of patients from all walks of life. In many respects, I have had nothing at all in common with any of Noel, Catherine and Mandy, other than our VADs and shared need for a heart transplant. We have all dealt with the situation in our own way. So far as the hospital is concerned, there can be no one-size-fits-all program for the care and management of a VAD/transplant patient. I wish Noel well and look forward to catching up with him when I too have become a former occupant of this place.
Wednesday was ANZAC day and a public holiday. I left the Hospital with ambitious plans. Camilla and I would take the children for a Barbecue in a large and popular water park, to join the Bellbowries and some friends for the afternoon. It was always going to be a challenge for our family to undertake such an expedition with a man and his VAD and an autistic boy who, given previous history, would be likely to be traumatised at the thought of submersion in water. Our more capable companions would be bringing all the gear and food and Julie promised to help with Charlie. We decided that nothing ventured would be nothing gained so it was off to the water park we went, bringing only ourselves, our VADs and two bottles of decent red from the cellar. One was a 2002 Gramps Barossa Shiraz; the other a 2006 Bungawarra Granite Belt Cabernet.
The afternoon was difficult for us. Then again, most things that are easily achieved for a "normal" family are difficult for us at present. The park was ridiculously crowded and the terrain unsuited to pushing a VAD. Charlie freaked when he saw children paddling in the shallow pools and wanted to be as far from the water as possible. Rather than entertain the idea of swings or rides, he just wanted to visit the public toilets, which had long queues of impatient park people. Imogen just wanted to read a book. I felt horrendously disabled and could contribute nothing of practical use to the proceedings. The barbecues were in short supply and frustratingly tepid. It took forever to render meat dry and grey. It should have been a terrible afternoon. But it wasn't. Not by any means. Julie took Charlie by the hand and led him around the water park to find things he enjoyed. He found playground equipment he liked. Even a few toilets. Andrew cooked the meat and Erich sprinkled it with lovely South African allspice. Conversation flowed easily. Imogen ditched the book and started talking to the other girls. The wine was excellent.
It's safe and easy to opt out of living because it is just too difficult with a VAD and a child with autism. Things that are easy for most families are difficult and frustrating for us. Nonetheless, the VAD is temporary and life cannot come to a complete halt. The show must go on.
Yesterday, my medical team decided to trial another painkiller regime. I had pushed them to indulge me this little experiment, because I was anxious to get this right before the transplant surgery. We decided to revert to a hit of good old fashioned morphine - tried and tested and excellent for heavy duty pain relief. We added a dose of stematil to mitigate the vertigo and a dose of ondanzitron for nausea.
The result was promising. I got a little vertigo, but nothing like the spinning room sensation I had experienced on other painkillers. I had no nausea. I could easily stand and even mange 15 minutes on the treadmill. I vomited once, copiously and violently, after the second dose. Far from ideal, but manageable. My pharmacist hopes that the vomiting can be managed with maxillon or perhaps my old buddy Dom Perignon. All in all, we now have something we can work with.
Today, Camilla and I got to the movies. This was the first time we had attempted the movies since my confinement. Again, it was ambitious and easily could have been too difficult with a VAD. Again, it proved a very worthwhile experience. We saw Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, a film adapted from a novel written by one of my favourite writers, Paul Torday. It was very good and we both thoroughly enjoyed it. It was easy for us to find good seats, as it was a quiet morning session. The Impaler ticked and whirred loudly throughout, but we had the crowd behind us and cared little whether the noise may have bothered a few people we didn't know and would never see again.
I am slowly coming to the realisation that even now life is for living and changed circumstances just mean that we carry on a little differently than we did before, or tackle things a little differently to everyone else. There is much merit in just getting on with life until the donor organ arrives. We know not the hour, nor the day. But in the meantime, life is for living.
Until next time,
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
A not so motley crew
Insolvency practitioners, both lawyers and accountants, are sometimes compared to vultures or pirates. I myself prefer pirates. Vultures are ugly, feed off carrion and smell bad. Pirates on the other hand are, well, pirates. They are exotic and brave and speak with a colourful lexicon. What is more fun late at a pub when conversing with your workmates? Talking like a pirate or screeching like a vulture?
So pirate is it. When I get my transplant and sufficiently recover I am going to go back to life as a professional pirate. Back to plundering booty from corporate galleons who have struck misfortune along the Spanish main.
It is axiomatic that a pirate needs a crew and my crew be a fine one indeed.
My first mate is a lad called Sammy. In his younger days, he was a National level rower, or oarsman if you will. Sammy is tall, fair, muscular and good looking. A fine specimen of manhood. Moreover he is a hell of a good young lawyer. He knows the law well, has an ability to formulate and implement tactics, speaks and writes well and is a good advocate in Court when needed. Sammy has been carrying my practice since I've been out of action and doing a sterling job in all respects. It is comforting to know that Sammy is sailing the ship until my sealegs are ready to board again. Well done, mate. Well done indeed.
The young buccaneers who sail with us are Matt and Anna. They are smart, confident young lawyers (or trainee lawyer in Anna's case) with stratospheric academic results and bucketloads of enthusiasm and drive. Matt thinks he's a lady's man, despite the orange hair. Anna has a taste for fine food and wine far beyond the salary I pay her. Other lawyers in the firm are keeping Matt and Anna busy until I get back on deck. Thanks for that, guys. Don't hesitate to drag out the cat-o-nine-tails if they give you any trouble.
The glue that binds our crew together is our secretary, Terrissa. She's a lovely young lass who is adept at keeping order and egos in check. Terrissa is quick and efficient. She types like a machine but has a kind heart and pleasant manner. Over my career, I have had three excellent long term secretaries and all have assisted me to be a better lawyer.
When I get back onto the ship I will sport some mean pirate scars. My current crop of scars are jagged, discoloured and lumpy. After transplant surgery, these scars will have even bigger, uglier scars on top of them, or through them. The final result will be a patchwork of real man's scars. True battle scars that tell stories of knifefights and brawls in salty sailor's taverns. Scars that inspire rum-soaked yarns and shanties. I'm tempted to think that this whole ordeal will be worth it for the scars.
Sammy has a few scars of his own. He was involved in a cycling accident a couple of years ago and broke his shoulder. This necessitated surgery and rehab. I think he took a total of ten hours off work.
Anna now has a little scar because she had her appendix out last week. Matt has no scars at all so a few of the boys from work are prepared to help me out with that. Jon Erbacher and Liam Fairhall have agreed to pin him down so that Sammy can create a few choice life tags on his pasty white skin. Alex de Luca has agreed to watch and maybe taunt him a little. de Luca likes to watch.
Until next time, me hearties,
So pirate is it. When I get my transplant and sufficiently recover I am going to go back to life as a professional pirate. Back to plundering booty from corporate galleons who have struck misfortune along the Spanish main.
It is axiomatic that a pirate needs a crew and my crew be a fine one indeed.
My first mate is a lad called Sammy. In his younger days, he was a National level rower, or oarsman if you will. Sammy is tall, fair, muscular and good looking. A fine specimen of manhood. Moreover he is a hell of a good young lawyer. He knows the law well, has an ability to formulate and implement tactics, speaks and writes well and is a good advocate in Court when needed. Sammy has been carrying my practice since I've been out of action and doing a sterling job in all respects. It is comforting to know that Sammy is sailing the ship until my sealegs are ready to board again. Well done, mate. Well done indeed.
The young buccaneers who sail with us are Matt and Anna. They are smart, confident young lawyers (or trainee lawyer in Anna's case) with stratospheric academic results and bucketloads of enthusiasm and drive. Matt thinks he's a lady's man, despite the orange hair. Anna has a taste for fine food and wine far beyond the salary I pay her. Other lawyers in the firm are keeping Matt and Anna busy until I get back on deck. Thanks for that, guys. Don't hesitate to drag out the cat-o-nine-tails if they give you any trouble.
The glue that binds our crew together is our secretary, Terrissa. She's a lovely young lass who is adept at keeping order and egos in check. Terrissa is quick and efficient. She types like a machine but has a kind heart and pleasant manner. Over my career, I have had three excellent long term secretaries and all have assisted me to be a better lawyer.
When I get back onto the ship I will sport some mean pirate scars. My current crop of scars are jagged, discoloured and lumpy. After transplant surgery, these scars will have even bigger, uglier scars on top of them, or through them. The final result will be a patchwork of real man's scars. True battle scars that tell stories of knifefights and brawls in salty sailor's taverns. Scars that inspire rum-soaked yarns and shanties. I'm tempted to think that this whole ordeal will be worth it for the scars.
Sammy has a few scars of his own. He was involved in a cycling accident a couple of years ago and broke his shoulder. This necessitated surgery and rehab. I think he took a total of ten hours off work.
Anna now has a little scar because she had her appendix out last week. Matt has no scars at all so a few of the boys from work are prepared to help me out with that. Jon Erbacher and Liam Fairhall have agreed to pin him down so that Sammy can create a few choice life tags on his pasty white skin. Alex de Luca has agreed to watch and maybe taunt him a little. de Luca likes to watch.
Until next time, me hearties,
Monday, 23 April 2012
A busman's holiday
All is well up here. My body is in good shape and my doctors have discontinued all IV antibiotics.
I managed to get home both days over the weekend. Saturday was a little stressful. When I arrived home for lunch, Charlie was gavotting about in his usual exuberant way. Then, after a short while he started whining. The whining turned to wailing as he became doubled over with pain.
For the first time in his life, Charlie was able to communicate his concerns with words. He told us he had a sore tummy. Camilla asked him where it hurt and he pointed to the leftt side of the abdomen. Thankfully, this was not the appendix side.
Camilla and my mother both diagnosed colic and agreed that it should pass with time. I was stunned. They rarely reached any form of consensus about these things. As the third member of the judiciary, I concurred that the diagnosis must be correct, and my father did so as well. Concurred in the sense of made no objection. Who were we to blow against the wind?
I tentatively suggested that they give beer to horses when they have colic, but nobody was prepared to trial this treatment so I shut up and left it to the experts.
Charlie did not improve. Three hours passed and he remained distressed and doubled over with pain. He could not walk. The committee agreed that it was now time to take him to the Accident and Emergency Department of our local hospital, the Wesley. We decided that Camilla, my father and I all ought to go. If it proved to be serious, Camilla could then take me back to Desolation Row and deal with whatever needed her attention.
Charlie decided that he would like to go "for a drive" with my father and so Camilla and I travelled to the Wesley separately in our car. I was a little uneasy about going back there. Seven and a half months earlier, my father had taken me there in the middle of the day because my pneumonia had worsened and I was short of breath. That night, Doctors Woodrow and Scalia diagnosed my heart failure and told me I would have had days to live had I not checked into hospital. I have not slept in my own bed since.
Whilst a little uneasy about this, my primary focus was on Charlie. He has always been terrified of doctors. Hence, we told had him that he was going merely for a drive. Admission to hospital would be a torturous experience for an autistic child. Camilla and I comforted ourselves with the notion that he would only be admitted if there was a compelling reason to do so.
Dad got Charlie ought of his car. Charlie was a little better but still walked stooped over. We took him inside and Camilla explained to him that he was going to see a doctor and what the doctor would do. Charlie understood and asked questions. He was calm.
We then saw the doctor on duty, Jenny Bowles. I remembered Jenny from an admission a couple of years ago when I had slipped in the street, fallen backwards and broke both elbows as I landed on open palms to back my fall. I must quickly add that it was midday and I was completely sober. Jenny recognised me and we explained the situation with Charlie. She had a niece with autism so she knew the deal.
Jenny told Charlie that she was going to listen to his tummy and look in his ears and mouth. Charlie said, no eyes and Jenny assured him that she did not need to shine a light into his eyes. She then pulled out her stethoscope and listened to Charlie's tummy. She looked into his ears and mouth and watched him walk. He was still somewhat crouched, but walking freely. Moreover, he was enjoying the whole experience. This was another measure of the progress he has made.
Jenny decided that Charlie indeed had colic. She gave him a balloon. Charlie asked to go to the toilet and my father took him into the cubicle. He came out cheerfully and announced he had done a poo. As Camilla punched in her PIN number to pay for the consultation, he was miraculously cured.
So we packed up our VADs and our healthy, vibrant boy and the whole entourage left the Wesley and headed home. We we very relieved that Charlie was well. It had been a busman's holiday for me but really nothing to complain about.
Until next time,
I managed to get home both days over the weekend. Saturday was a little stressful. When I arrived home for lunch, Charlie was gavotting about in his usual exuberant way. Then, after a short while he started whining. The whining turned to wailing as he became doubled over with pain.
For the first time in his life, Charlie was able to communicate his concerns with words. He told us he had a sore tummy. Camilla asked him where it hurt and he pointed to the leftt side of the abdomen. Thankfully, this was not the appendix side.
Camilla and my mother both diagnosed colic and agreed that it should pass with time. I was stunned. They rarely reached any form of consensus about these things. As the third member of the judiciary, I concurred that the diagnosis must be correct, and my father did so as well. Concurred in the sense of made no objection. Who were we to blow against the wind?
I tentatively suggested that they give beer to horses when they have colic, but nobody was prepared to trial this treatment so I shut up and left it to the experts.
Charlie did not improve. Three hours passed and he remained distressed and doubled over with pain. He could not walk. The committee agreed that it was now time to take him to the Accident and Emergency Department of our local hospital, the Wesley. We decided that Camilla, my father and I all ought to go. If it proved to be serious, Camilla could then take me back to Desolation Row and deal with whatever needed her attention.
Charlie decided that he would like to go "for a drive" with my father and so Camilla and I travelled to the Wesley separately in our car. I was a little uneasy about going back there. Seven and a half months earlier, my father had taken me there in the middle of the day because my pneumonia had worsened and I was short of breath. That night, Doctors Woodrow and Scalia diagnosed my heart failure and told me I would have had days to live had I not checked into hospital. I have not slept in my own bed since.
Whilst a little uneasy about this, my primary focus was on Charlie. He has always been terrified of doctors. Hence, we told had him that he was going merely for a drive. Admission to hospital would be a torturous experience for an autistic child. Camilla and I comforted ourselves with the notion that he would only be admitted if there was a compelling reason to do so.
Dad got Charlie ought of his car. Charlie was a little better but still walked stooped over. We took him inside and Camilla explained to him that he was going to see a doctor and what the doctor would do. Charlie understood and asked questions. He was calm.
We then saw the doctor on duty, Jenny Bowles. I remembered Jenny from an admission a couple of years ago when I had slipped in the street, fallen backwards and broke both elbows as I landed on open palms to back my fall. I must quickly add that it was midday and I was completely sober. Jenny recognised me and we explained the situation with Charlie. She had a niece with autism so she knew the deal.
Jenny told Charlie that she was going to listen to his tummy and look in his ears and mouth. Charlie said, no eyes and Jenny assured him that she did not need to shine a light into his eyes. She then pulled out her stethoscope and listened to Charlie's tummy. She looked into his ears and mouth and watched him walk. He was still somewhat crouched, but walking freely. Moreover, he was enjoying the whole experience. This was another measure of the progress he has made.
Jenny decided that Charlie indeed had colic. She gave him a balloon. Charlie asked to go to the toilet and my father took him into the cubicle. He came out cheerfully and announced he had done a poo. As Camilla punched in her PIN number to pay for the consultation, he was miraculously cured.
So we packed up our VADs and our healthy, vibrant boy and the whole entourage left the Wesley and headed home. We we very relieved that Charlie was well. It had been a busman's holiday for me but really nothing to complain about.
Until next time,
Thursday, 19 April 2012
A turbulent priest
Things continue to go well. At the moment, my only real concern is the occasional flourish of stigmata from the VAD wounds. Pinochet remains a broken, bitter man in exile, living on memories. I think he is somewhere in Teddington. I am exercising well and tweaking my diet to maintain the best condition for surgery. Now would be a very good time to receive the call.
Noel is now free from all drains and attachments and healing fast. He is scheduled to be discharged on Tuesday and everything he does is marked with unbridled enthusiasm. He is high as a high school student mucking up in the last week of school. He goes AWOL for hours on end wandering the hospital, enjoying his freedom. Once night the nurses found him asleep in a chair down in outpatients. He refuses his physio sessions and won't study his post-transplant tablet regime for the discharge exam. We all know Noel well and nobody is too concerned. He'll never wander too far and will eventually do his study. He likes to bend the boundaries but is smart enough not to jeopardise his own well being.
So very soon, Voight and Hoffman will cease their hospital partnership. The Midnight Cowboy will return to Wynnum Bay and Ratso will remain in the big house. I will continue to keep up contact with Noel. He's a good bloke and we will all miss him up here. At some point this year, he is likely to grace our living rooms when the Sixty Minutes story airs.
Noel is looking to get himself a new car once he gets home. He has decided on a Hilux but perhaps he could look a little further afield and see if Jon Voight's Le Baron is still on the market. If he could secure that vehicle it would make for a great and very lucrative story.
Mandy is doing well. She is now able to get in and out of bed unaided and is pushing her VAD around the hospital corridors. It took me until late November or early December to do these things, but this is not a fair comparison. I was very sick and she is harnessing the amazing regenerative powers of youth. Mandy should heal quickly and well and she deserves that.
Mandy is aiming to spend most of her time on the waiting list at home. Her mother is a nurse and it looks like home will be a practical alternative for her circumstances. I really hope she can do this. Hospitals are inherently depressing places, filled with the old and infirm (with a few fabulously good looking middle aged lawyers here and there to break the monotony). They are not conducive to being young and free.
Over the course of my confinement, I have had a few visits from the former Bishop of Toowoomba, Bishop Bill Morris. My first memories of Bishop Morris date to my long lost adolescence. At the time, he was a young and vibrant new Bishop and the diocese quickly warmed to his energy and compassion. He became much loved and respected by his priests and parishioners with very good reason. He was an excellent pastoral Bishop and a kind and gentle man.
In 2006, Bishop Morris wrote an Advent letter to his parishioners in which he had the audacity to suggest, amongst other things, that the Church ought to consider the ordination of women and married priests to meet the chronic shortages in dioceses such as his own. The Bishop merely suggested that it be a subject for debate within the Church. Many Catholics agree with this, whether progressive or otherwise. I see no issue whatsoever in the implementation of such reform. Indeed, it is a blight on the Church that it wasn't done a long time ago.
Some parishioners did not agree with Bishop Morris' views and reported him to the Doctrine for the Congregation of the Faith in Rome. This resulted in Pope Benedict XVI deciding that someone needed to rid him of this turbulent priest and Bishop Morris was asked to resign. He did.
Rome's action saw the events in faraway Toowoomba makes headlines around the world. Local priests and parishioners were outraged and staged protests. Many of them, such as my parents, were conservative and quiet people who had never previously participated in an organised protest about anything.
Several prominent Catholic scholars believe that Rome acted in breach of both canon and civil law, because Bishop Morris had been denied procedural fairness. Among them are Father Frank Brennan, a Jesuit priest and respected lawyer whose father sat as Chief Justice on the bench of the High Court of Australia. Another is Bill Carter, a retired judge of the Queensland Supreme Court.
True to character, Bishop Morris appears neither bitter nor regretful. He just goes about his business of being a wonderful and kind priest. He is one of the few men I truly admire and I am proud to welcome him into my hospital room. He is a man of God and a man of the people. I sleep well knowing that he is praying for me. The Church would be much stronger and more relevant to the modern world if it were able to embrace and promote the views and works of progressive and good men such as Bishop Morris. We seem to have lost more than a little ground since the days of Pope John XXIII.
Until next time,
Noel is now free from all drains and attachments and healing fast. He is scheduled to be discharged on Tuesday and everything he does is marked with unbridled enthusiasm. He is high as a high school student mucking up in the last week of school. He goes AWOL for hours on end wandering the hospital, enjoying his freedom. Once night the nurses found him asleep in a chair down in outpatients. He refuses his physio sessions and won't study his post-transplant tablet regime for the discharge exam. We all know Noel well and nobody is too concerned. He'll never wander too far and will eventually do his study. He likes to bend the boundaries but is smart enough not to jeopardise his own well being.
So very soon, Voight and Hoffman will cease their hospital partnership. The Midnight Cowboy will return to Wynnum Bay and Ratso will remain in the big house. I will continue to keep up contact with Noel. He's a good bloke and we will all miss him up here. At some point this year, he is likely to grace our living rooms when the Sixty Minutes story airs.
Noel is looking to get himself a new car once he gets home. He has decided on a Hilux but perhaps he could look a little further afield and see if Jon Voight's Le Baron is still on the market. If he could secure that vehicle it would make for a great and very lucrative story.
Mandy is doing well. She is now able to get in and out of bed unaided and is pushing her VAD around the hospital corridors. It took me until late November or early December to do these things, but this is not a fair comparison. I was very sick and she is harnessing the amazing regenerative powers of youth. Mandy should heal quickly and well and she deserves that.
Mandy is aiming to spend most of her time on the waiting list at home. Her mother is a nurse and it looks like home will be a practical alternative for her circumstances. I really hope she can do this. Hospitals are inherently depressing places, filled with the old and infirm (with a few fabulously good looking middle aged lawyers here and there to break the monotony). They are not conducive to being young and free.
Over the course of my confinement, I have had a few visits from the former Bishop of Toowoomba, Bishop Bill Morris. My first memories of Bishop Morris date to my long lost adolescence. At the time, he was a young and vibrant new Bishop and the diocese quickly warmed to his energy and compassion. He became much loved and respected by his priests and parishioners with very good reason. He was an excellent pastoral Bishop and a kind and gentle man.
In 2006, Bishop Morris wrote an Advent letter to his parishioners in which he had the audacity to suggest, amongst other things, that the Church ought to consider the ordination of women and married priests to meet the chronic shortages in dioceses such as his own. The Bishop merely suggested that it be a subject for debate within the Church. Many Catholics agree with this, whether progressive or otherwise. I see no issue whatsoever in the implementation of such reform. Indeed, it is a blight on the Church that it wasn't done a long time ago.
Some parishioners did not agree with Bishop Morris' views and reported him to the Doctrine for the Congregation of the Faith in Rome. This resulted in Pope Benedict XVI deciding that someone needed to rid him of this turbulent priest and Bishop Morris was asked to resign. He did.
Rome's action saw the events in faraway Toowoomba makes headlines around the world. Local priests and parishioners were outraged and staged protests. Many of them, such as my parents, were conservative and quiet people who had never previously participated in an organised protest about anything.
Several prominent Catholic scholars believe that Rome acted in breach of both canon and civil law, because Bishop Morris had been denied procedural fairness. Among them are Father Frank Brennan, a Jesuit priest and respected lawyer whose father sat as Chief Justice on the bench of the High Court of Australia. Another is Bill Carter, a retired judge of the Queensland Supreme Court.
True to character, Bishop Morris appears neither bitter nor regretful. He just goes about his business of being a wonderful and kind priest. He is one of the few men I truly admire and I am proud to welcome him into my hospital room. He is a man of God and a man of the people. I sleep well knowing that he is praying for me. The Church would be much stronger and more relevant to the modern world if it were able to embrace and promote the views and works of progressive and good men such as Bishop Morris. We seem to have lost more than a little ground since the days of Pope John XXIII.
Until next time,
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
Many people have asked me what it was like to experience a long term coma. A good question indeed and one I shall attempt as best I can to answer.
I now know that Camilla, my parents and family spent eight tortured weeks conducting a horrific bedside vigil desperately encouraging a very sick body to rage against the dying of the light. I, however, was elsewhere. My recollection of the experience is understandably imperfect but has improved significantly over time.
In the coma, I constructed a disturbed alternative reality - a vivid and emotive dreamscape that had some elements of reality and many of my own creation. I am told this is common.
I started in a hospital room, but a different room to the one I was actually in. Camilla, Dr Thomson and my parents were all present at various times. There was a heavy curtain surrounding me, but I could hear conversations between them conducted outside the curtain. The conversations were supposed to be secret but I could hear them clearly. I recall Dr Thomson telling my parents that I had died and this caused them to fall apart with grief. They then decided to steal Camilla's mother's car from the parking station. Camilla and her mother were incensed and got the police involved.
As it turned out I had not died and was released from hospital. There was no VAD and no illness. I was completely recovered in all respects. My sister, Shelley, then had twins.
Camilla and I were then invited to a large party at Dr Thomson's house. He lived in Toowoomba, in a big house near East Creek. Camilla and Mrs Thomson were now good friends. For some reason, I was not allowed to drink alcohol at the party, but everyone else was. They were drinking excellent wine from Dr Thomson's cellar, all in moderation in a very civilised and urbane manner. My temperance was not a concern for me, as I was greatly enjoying the company of the Thomsons and their friends.
A few days after the party, Camilla and I visited the Thomsons and we thanked them for their hospitality. They said that we were friends and that was what friends did.
I then played a game of golf on a country golf course with some mates. We abandoned the golf game and decided to started drinking cheap nasty spirits. We got drunk and rowdy and found what we believed to be an abandoned warehouse next to the golf course. I found a darkened room in the warehouse and it contained a bed. I then damaged something in the room. I cannot recall what it was. It may have been a window. I crashed on the bed and fell into a deep drunken slumber.
I was awoken by a security guard brandishing a flashlight. He said that I had been trespassing and had damaged the property of the company he worked for. It was a large American company and corporate policy was to sue to the full extent of the law, however trivial the incident.
I then did a dumb thing, because I was scared. I confessed that I had trespassed and damaged company property. He completed an incident report and I signed it. He then left.
I immediately realised that this was a stupid, stupid thing to have done. Had I shut my mouth, the company had no case against me. My own foolish confession had given them all the evidence they needed to put me in jail. So much for years of training. I was just an idiot.
I then decided that the only thing to do was run. To evade service. They could not prosecute me if they could not serve me.
Our family then began life on the run, moving steadily North. We spent a few days at different locations. We stopped at a resort near Mackay where I had conducted a mediation years before. It was safe and one night we were there Bob Dylan's son and his band put on a show in the lounge.
But the company process servers got word where we were. Someone tipped us off and we kept moving North. We stayed at a farm outside Townsville owned by some friends. They were convening a camp for underprivileged children so we helped out with that. It was a happy few days but we knew the company process servers would find us. Our only choice was to keep going North to Papua New Guinea. We organised a small plane and our friends saw us off at the local airport.
I then can recall being back in a hospital bed surrounded by drapes. I was screaming like a banshee and could not get out of bed. I would see inanimate objects in the room become animated as monsters. The nurses yelled at me to control myself.
That's all I can really remember. There were no bright lights that I walked towards. Just lots of fright and running from trouble.
Waking up was a gradual process. There was no moment of my eyes suddenly opening and my consciousness returning to the real world. It happened slowly over a few days.
I then had great difficulty distinguishing what I had dreamed and what had actually happened. I asked my sister how the twins were going.
I guess my dream sequence has meaning to some extent and I am sure that anyone who would be interested enough to do so, from an eminent psychiatrist to a pop psychologist, would be able to distill the events into a meaningful response to recent events. I was on enough sedatives to put down a horse and I am told that this of itself is a factor which promotes distressing dreams.
I cannot help but believe that some things from the outside world permeated through to my subconscious. They were not actual events as such, but more impressions and silhouettes of reality, which were incorporated into my new perceived reality.
So that, for what it is worth, was what I saw when addled with drugs and close to death. Somehow I managed to summon sufficient rage against the dying of the light. The lion's share of the credit, of course, must go to the many doctors whose skills and expertise got me through these darkest of days. I like to think that they too were able to invoke some degree of rage in successfully fighting the good fight.
Until next time,
I now know that Camilla, my parents and family spent eight tortured weeks conducting a horrific bedside vigil desperately encouraging a very sick body to rage against the dying of the light. I, however, was elsewhere. My recollection of the experience is understandably imperfect but has improved significantly over time.
In the coma, I constructed a disturbed alternative reality - a vivid and emotive dreamscape that had some elements of reality and many of my own creation. I am told this is common.
I started in a hospital room, but a different room to the one I was actually in. Camilla, Dr Thomson and my parents were all present at various times. There was a heavy curtain surrounding me, but I could hear conversations between them conducted outside the curtain. The conversations were supposed to be secret but I could hear them clearly. I recall Dr Thomson telling my parents that I had died and this caused them to fall apart with grief. They then decided to steal Camilla's mother's car from the parking station. Camilla and her mother were incensed and got the police involved.
As it turned out I had not died and was released from hospital. There was no VAD and no illness. I was completely recovered in all respects. My sister, Shelley, then had twins.
Camilla and I were then invited to a large party at Dr Thomson's house. He lived in Toowoomba, in a big house near East Creek. Camilla and Mrs Thomson were now good friends. For some reason, I was not allowed to drink alcohol at the party, but everyone else was. They were drinking excellent wine from Dr Thomson's cellar, all in moderation in a very civilised and urbane manner. My temperance was not a concern for me, as I was greatly enjoying the company of the Thomsons and their friends.
A few days after the party, Camilla and I visited the Thomsons and we thanked them for their hospitality. They said that we were friends and that was what friends did.
I then played a game of golf on a country golf course with some mates. We abandoned the golf game and decided to started drinking cheap nasty spirits. We got drunk and rowdy and found what we believed to be an abandoned warehouse next to the golf course. I found a darkened room in the warehouse and it contained a bed. I then damaged something in the room. I cannot recall what it was. It may have been a window. I crashed on the bed and fell into a deep drunken slumber.
I was awoken by a security guard brandishing a flashlight. He said that I had been trespassing and had damaged the property of the company he worked for. It was a large American company and corporate policy was to sue to the full extent of the law, however trivial the incident.
I then did a dumb thing, because I was scared. I confessed that I had trespassed and damaged company property. He completed an incident report and I signed it. He then left.
I immediately realised that this was a stupid, stupid thing to have done. Had I shut my mouth, the company had no case against me. My own foolish confession had given them all the evidence they needed to put me in jail. So much for years of training. I was just an idiot.
I then decided that the only thing to do was run. To evade service. They could not prosecute me if they could not serve me.
Our family then began life on the run, moving steadily North. We spent a few days at different locations. We stopped at a resort near Mackay where I had conducted a mediation years before. It was safe and one night we were there Bob Dylan's son and his band put on a show in the lounge.
But the company process servers got word where we were. Someone tipped us off and we kept moving North. We stayed at a farm outside Townsville owned by some friends. They were convening a camp for underprivileged children so we helped out with that. It was a happy few days but we knew the company process servers would find us. Our only choice was to keep going North to Papua New Guinea. We organised a small plane and our friends saw us off at the local airport.
I then can recall being back in a hospital bed surrounded by drapes. I was screaming like a banshee and could not get out of bed. I would see inanimate objects in the room become animated as monsters. The nurses yelled at me to control myself.
That's all I can really remember. There were no bright lights that I walked towards. Just lots of fright and running from trouble.
Waking up was a gradual process. There was no moment of my eyes suddenly opening and my consciousness returning to the real world. It happened slowly over a few days.
I then had great difficulty distinguishing what I had dreamed and what had actually happened. I asked my sister how the twins were going.
I guess my dream sequence has meaning to some extent and I am sure that anyone who would be interested enough to do so, from an eminent psychiatrist to a pop psychologist, would be able to distill the events into a meaningful response to recent events. I was on enough sedatives to put down a horse and I am told that this of itself is a factor which promotes distressing dreams.
I cannot help but believe that some things from the outside world permeated through to my subconscious. They were not actual events as such, but more impressions and silhouettes of reality, which were incorporated into my new perceived reality.
So that, for what it is worth, was what I saw when addled with drugs and close to death. Somehow I managed to summon sufficient rage against the dying of the light. The lion's share of the credit, of course, must go to the many doctors whose skills and expertise got me through these darkest of days. I like to think that they too were able to invoke some degree of rage in successfully fighting the good fight.
Until next time,
Days of wine and roses
The last few days have been very positive. Things have been pretty good health wise, so there have been some opportunities to get out a little and break the soul-destroying tedium of Hospitalworld.
On Monday, I received a visit from my maternal grandmother. Nan will turn 96 next month, but she is still fiercely independent. She lives at home and cooks for herself. She played tennis into her eighties. Nan could not entertain the thought of a nursing home. She lives life on her terms. I offered to arrange her a wheelchair to escort her from car to room and she would not have a bar of it. She would walk, slowly and proudly, all the way, by herself.
Nan is a lovely, gentle lady and I was very pleased that she was able to travel from Toowoomba to visit. My uncle Jim and auntie Annette were taking her for a short vacation to the Sunshine Coast, so they were able to stop by the hospital on the way through. It was good to see them. For a time, it looked like Nan would outlive me. Even when I get the transplant, it will be some time before I get to Toowoomba. For many reasons, it was a welcome and timely visit.
Yesterday, I got out for a pub lunch with my best mate, Rhino. It's been and long time since we've enjoyed a beer together and I daresay the only time we've only consumed one each. Rhino was able to make it to Bluesfest to see the Pogues, taking his older kids to experience some classic old people music. They got a good position close to the stage and were near enough for Shane MacGowan to spill a beer on them. Shane was, of course, very drunk but on song. Whilst I am disappointed that I could not get there, I was much pleased that Rhino could. His dear mother took a bad fall recently and it was difficult for him to get away. Rhino has been a terrific mate during this saga. We'll definitely get to Bluesfest next year.
Having a little lunch session at the pub should have been the prelude to a quiet relaxed afternoon, but my physiotherapist had other, more sinister, ideas. Lisa politely suggested a session of hill walking, just a little further and steeper than we had been doing previously. Lisa knows I cannot say no to her and she ruthlessly and mercilessly exploits this weakness for her own sadistic pleasure. Mind you, I cannot complain. She is invariably a pleasure to work with and has produced results.
Today we finished my medical stuff early and my lovely nurse Bridget suggested that Camilla and I check out Redcliffe or Sandgate for a seaside lunch. Bridget is full of good ideas and this was a particularly fine one. I had not seen the ocean for many months and we decided that a salty sea breeze was the perfect accompaniment to a decent meal. These areas were virtually unknown to us and we had never really given them much thought.
We chose to dine at Morgans, a fabulous purveyor of seafood overlooking the marina. We sat on the deck, breathed in the salt air and worked our way through an enormous platter of the freshest seafood, including Pacific oysters, Moreton Bay bugs, tiger prawns and spanner crab. It was divine. We then took a slow drive along the waterfront with the windows down. Then reluctantly it was back to the stark reality of Hospitalworld.
I apologise for being nauseatingly positive today. This Polyanna manner is completely out of character and I will make sure I take a strong dose of cynical pills and resume normal programming next post.
Until next time,
On Monday, I received a visit from my maternal grandmother. Nan will turn 96 next month, but she is still fiercely independent. She lives at home and cooks for herself. She played tennis into her eighties. Nan could not entertain the thought of a nursing home. She lives life on her terms. I offered to arrange her a wheelchair to escort her from car to room and she would not have a bar of it. She would walk, slowly and proudly, all the way, by herself.
Nan is a lovely, gentle lady and I was very pleased that she was able to travel from Toowoomba to visit. My uncle Jim and auntie Annette were taking her for a short vacation to the Sunshine Coast, so they were able to stop by the hospital on the way through. It was good to see them. For a time, it looked like Nan would outlive me. Even when I get the transplant, it will be some time before I get to Toowoomba. For many reasons, it was a welcome and timely visit.
Yesterday, I got out for a pub lunch with my best mate, Rhino. It's been and long time since we've enjoyed a beer together and I daresay the only time we've only consumed one each. Rhino was able to make it to Bluesfest to see the Pogues, taking his older kids to experience some classic old people music. They got a good position close to the stage and were near enough for Shane MacGowan to spill a beer on them. Shane was, of course, very drunk but on song. Whilst I am disappointed that I could not get there, I was much pleased that Rhino could. His dear mother took a bad fall recently and it was difficult for him to get away. Rhino has been a terrific mate during this saga. We'll definitely get to Bluesfest next year.
Having a little lunch session at the pub should have been the prelude to a quiet relaxed afternoon, but my physiotherapist had other, more sinister, ideas. Lisa politely suggested a session of hill walking, just a little further and steeper than we had been doing previously. Lisa knows I cannot say no to her and she ruthlessly and mercilessly exploits this weakness for her own sadistic pleasure. Mind you, I cannot complain. She is invariably a pleasure to work with and has produced results.
Today we finished my medical stuff early and my lovely nurse Bridget suggested that Camilla and I check out Redcliffe or Sandgate for a seaside lunch. Bridget is full of good ideas and this was a particularly fine one. I had not seen the ocean for many months and we decided that a salty sea breeze was the perfect accompaniment to a decent meal. These areas were virtually unknown to us and we had never really given them much thought.
We chose to dine at Morgans, a fabulous purveyor of seafood overlooking the marina. We sat on the deck, breathed in the salt air and worked our way through an enormous platter of the freshest seafood, including Pacific oysters, Moreton Bay bugs, tiger prawns and spanner crab. It was divine. We then took a slow drive along the waterfront with the windows down. Then reluctantly it was back to the stark reality of Hospitalworld.
I apologise for being nauseatingly positive today. This Polyanna manner is completely out of character and I will make sure I take a strong dose of cynical pills and resume normal programming next post.
Until next time,
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